o swear not by the moon
by acrosticacrumpet
Summary: Romeo is melodramatic, Juliet feels bored and stifled, and there's something bothering Mercutio. In the midst of all of this, somehow, a love story happens. Also there are vampires and werewolves. The werewolf/vampire AU I didn't know I wanted to write until the request came in on Tumblr.


AN: In this year of our Lord 2015 I wrote shitty high school AU werewolf/vampire Romeo & Juliet fic and enjoyed every minute of it. I honestly cannot believe myself.

Thanks to the person who requested it for giving me the idea, though...

* * *

" _Dude_ ," Benvolio snaps, catching up with Romeo only after shinning his way up a drainpipe. Why does this guy have such a thing about lounging around on rooftops? OK, so they're vampires, that doesn't mean they have to act dramatic and brooding _all the time_. He's reassured to see that Romeo is at least wearing his sun-hood. Vampire sunburn is not pretty.

"What is it?" Romeo murmurs. Oh god, he sounds _pathetic_. Why does this shit happen to Benvolio.

"Your parents are worried," Benvolio tells him bluntly. "Also, they found another wolf corpse. Drained. There was a riot over it."

"God, not _again_ ," Romeo says, and for a moment he sounds genuinely tired, genuinely concerned; then his eyes shutter over, and he quotes, " _O brawling love, O loving hate_. When are we going to stop doing this to each other? How do we leave the borderlands between love and hate?"

Benvolio sighs deeply. "Dude, you have got to get over Rosaline liking chicks."

* * *

"Bro. Bro," Mercutio says, slinging an arm around Romeo's shoulders. Romeo is never sure whether he's saying it ironically or not. Mercutio is like that. Romeo would blame it on the faery blood, except Mercutio doesn't need faery blood to be weird. The sharply, eerily handsome features, those come from his lineage; the morbid humour and haunting, almost self-destructive charm, those are all Mercutio.

"House party tonight," Mercutio announces, flinging his other arm out in a grandiose gesture. "We're gatecrashing. Don't argue, I already bought you a mask. 9 pm, at the Capulets'."

"At the _Capulets'_? Mercutio, that's not a house party, that's a fucking _inter-pack conference party_ –"

"Yeah, so no-one's gonna think it's weird if there's two guys there they don't recognise," Mercutio says, slowly for the benefit of people who actually have self-preservation instincts.

"Mercutio –" Romeo begins, but he can already see the – _edge_ , in Mercutio's eyes. Maybe gatecrashing a werewolf conference-slash-booze-up will get him out of this fey (haha, _fey_ ) mood. "Fine. But I have a bad feeling about this."

* * *

"Just think about it, sweetie." The endearment sounds smooth but out-of-place in her mother's business-like tone. _Sweetie_ is something that drops from her mouth when she's distracted and wants Juliet to go away, or when she wants something from Juliet. "Paris is a very nice young man, and he's well on the way to a great career. He has his priorities sorted out. Not like high school boys at all."

Juliet doesn't mention that she herself is a _high school girl_ , and that as gross as many of the boys at school are, that doesn't mean she wants to date some guy who's almost out of college. What would they even talk about?

"Very handsome, too," Nurse – Juliet has always called her Nurse, even though it feels weird now – puts in slyly. She's grinning. "All the college girls are apparently _swooning_ over him – I hear there's even a blog dedicated entirely to his –"

" _Nurse!_ " Juliet's mother raps out sharply, and there goes that line of conversation.

Well, at least Nurse accepts that a teenage girl can _have_ a sex drive of some description. Juliet's mother seems to think your average teenage girl – OK, that's not fair. Juliet's mother seems to think that Juliet, who is _her_ daughter and therefore the farthest thing from average, is a chaste maiden who's going to marry some promising young lawyer from old money, preferably one with valuable connections for the Pack, and want nothing more than a luxurious lifestyle and the occasional anniversary gift from life and her husband.

Was that what Juliet's mother had expected, going into her marriage coldly calculating, or had she once turned that terrifying _driven_ quality of hers to love instead of business and Pack politics?

Juliet doesn't really want to think about her mother's love life, but she can say for sure that it's not what she wants.

"I'll think about it, OK?" she says, trying not to sound too whiney-teenager – that'll get her nowhere. "I promise I'll talk to him at the party, and if I like him then who knows. But I don't _know_ him, Mama, I'm not going to throw myself at him."

"Just – be charming, you're already pretty, for goodness' sake," her mother mutters, more to herself than to Juliet, and then her phone rings and she's leaving the room to take another urgent call.

"You know, your mother only wants what's best for you," Nurse says gently, and Juliet holds back – with impressive restraint – the urge to heave a mighty sigh.

"I know," she says. "I don't mind her wanting to look out for me. I wouldn't even mind having a boyfriend – or a girlfriend, but I don't think she'd like that – but she expects the whole thing to lead straight to marriage, and I just want to be a teenager!"

"Believe me, I remember what it was like," Nurse says, eyes twinkling, and Juliet braces herself for a flood of reminiscences.

It'd be nice if her mother was prepared to consider something that wasn't marriage for Juliet's future. It'd be nice if her mother didn't think she had the right to decide Juliet's future – not that she ever asserts it, you don't need to assert something you assume is obvious truth. It'd be nice if her mother cared more about _Juliet's_ future, and less about that of the Pack.

But then, the Pack is her mother's life, and Juliet is her daughter. As far as Mama is concerned, the welfare of the Pack and the welfare of Juliet are one and the same. Except Juliet has the most awful feeling that they're not.

Well, maybe this Paris guy will turn out to have a sense of humour, at least. And anyway, Juliet has trig homework to worry about.

* * *

Romeo is well aware that all he's doing by standing at the edge of the party is making himself look like a complete loser, but seriously, he does _not_ want to be here.

The big players here, thankfully, are at the bar mostly, drinking their way in and out of alliances; the younger ones – members of the Capulet pack, and young, hot-headed fighter wolves who came as backup with visiting pack leaders – are dancing like there's no tomorrow. Benvolio is flirting with one of Rosaline's friends, Elena or something, and Mercutio is flirting with both of them, which comes as no surprise. Rosaline and her girlfriend are making lovey-dovey eyes at each other, which makes Romeo feel embarrassingly sad, and then stupid, and then both. Also, there is no blood to be had, and Romeo could _really_ go for a nice glass of AB. As it is he's hoping they start bringing round rare steak hors d'oeuvres.

At least the music is decent.

The song playing begins to fade out, and people start to disperse from the dancefloor a little, to the point where it looks more like an actual crowd and less like one great mass of sweaty human. Or rather werewolf.

It's thanks to that that he spots her, in a break in the crowd, still going strong even as the dancing starts to falter. Dark hair thrown back, arms flung up in the air, light catching in the sweat that beads on her face. Eyes closed. Completely unself-conscious.

 _Oh_ , Romeo thinks, somewhat helplessly. He has been to enough parties at this point, has _seen_ girls dance before, but –

She sways, executes a sloppy twirl and stumbles back, laughing. Eyes blindingly bright.

 _Oh_ , Romeo thinks. _Oh, shit_ , and he pushes away from the wall to join the dance.

* * *

Looking back, later, it's hard to remember the specifics of what they said or how they moved when they danced together. He remembers her laughing, remembers how it made him feel like he'd just been shot into antigravity. He vaguely remembers ABBA. He remembers stumbling off the dancefloor with her to a backdoor, to where the summer evening was cool outside. Remembers standing staring at her, desperate to do something, paralyzed by it. She laced her fingers with his and he kissed them.

He remembers the evening breeze blew through her hair, that the strands of it whispered against his face, her arms round his neck.

* * *

Juliet has always hidden on her balcony when she wanted to be alone, ever since she was little. It's a little bit cold, but she has a fluffy dressing gown for that, and fuzzy slippers. She knows she looks a bit of a mess right now, hair dishevelled and getting more so as the wind picks up, makeup smeared, sitting out on a balcony in the middle of the night – and yet, she looked in the mirror a minute ago, and all she could think was _I look so good, I look so happy, I look so much like myself_. It's scaring her.

The thing that's scaring her is _she made out with a vampire_ and she feels the best she has in a long time.

"Juliet?" comes a faint cry from downstairs.

She doesn't want to bother replying, but if she doesn't then they'll come looking. "Coming in a minute!"

The wind rustles through the trees. (They live in a forest. Of course they do. Because they're werewolves.)

"A vampire," she murmurs. " _God_." Then she lets out a helpless giggle. Her makeup is smeared and her hair is a mess and she's sitting outside at night in a dressing gown and slippers, and earlier she was with a vampire, hanging out by the back door on the shabbier end of the function hall, where people go to smoke and drop their cigarettes, a little bit cold in her party dress, and they made out and she felt so much like herself she's still high from it now.

A _vampire_.

"Why'd you have to be a vampire," she mutters, almost to herself.

The trees rustle again. "I. Um. I'd rather not be?"

"What the _fuck_ ," Juliet says, scrambling up and backwards in an impressive display of speed for someone who was never really that into the whole werewolf thing, and it's only because she's got so used to saying things under her breath in case her mother hears that she doesn't actually shriek the words.

"Sorry!" the figure says quickly, holding its – his? – hands out in a display of peace or something. "Sorry, sorry, I know this is really creepy, I'll go –"

" _Don't!_ " If Juliet is going to be scared half to death by a vampire showing up beneath her balcony she is at least going to find out _why the hell he's there._

"Uh. Oh God," the vampire – his name is Romeo, right? – says. "Um, I can explain – well, OK, I can't really, but it's just… we didn't really get the chance to exchange names earlier, or numbers, and I didn't –" He breaks off, looks to the side. "I didn't want to just give up so soon on seeing you again," he says, more quietly. "I just… wanted to make sure I'd done everything I could. I – really, really like you."

He doesn't blush, but he doesn't need to, it's there in his voice. Juliet presses her hand to her mouth to stifle a breathless laugh, and finds, to her dismay, that she _is_ blushing.

"You idiot," she whispers. "This is Pack land! If my family catches even a whiff of you here you'll get staked!"

Romeo moves forward a little, and Juliet realises he appears to be wearing a borrowed hoodie, among other things. It's a little too big for him. "If they can smell me under these they're welcome to me," he says. "But if you want me to go, I'll go."

Juliet gives up and lets the giggles flow out, under her breath, staring down at him. "You idiot," she breathes. She sits back down, lets her legs dangle over the edge of the balcony. "Stay for a bit."

* * *

They get about two weeks.

Juliet lies to her parents, says she's staying late for a study group, stays out so late it's dark by the time she stumbles in the door, eyes bright, looking mussed and delighted. Romeo drives Benvolio to distraction by refusing to say why he's suddenly given up on the whole brooding thing. God, what a pair they make, scraped knees and leaves in their hair from play-fighting and climbing inadvisable things. Romeo drops his brief and pointless flirtation with smoking. Juliet starts running around in worn sandals and a hoodie too big for her, ready to run, ready to leap.

They get careless – Juliet comes home smelling of undeath and Romeo comes home with bite marks on his arms from play fights. But they're lucky. They're lucky. Nurse smiles, knowing, not telling. Benvolio flings an arm around Romeo's shoulders, demands to know why he never hangs out with them these days, but without accusing. Glad for him.

Outside of all of this, that strange fey edge in Mercutio's eyes grows harsher, brighter; and in the Capulet household, Juliet, distracted, barely notices Tybalt snapping at the smallest things.

The summer air grows hotter.

* * *

"Oh God," Romeo whispers. "Oh God, Mercutio."

All the air is still. Blood beads at the place Tybalt's teeth struck. Mercutio lets out a racking kind of cough, then a sound too weak and cut-off to be a scream. He is twitching.

 _Oh God. Oh God, Mercutio_.

The hallway is bright. The light catches on Mercutio's hair, on the blood in his mouth. He's coughing up blood. He coughs again.

 _Faery blood. That always had him on edge, fear of the hold the fey folk had on him._ Enough that when Tybalt said something insulting about it –

"Mercutio," Romeo whispers again. Benvolio should be getting help, should be _doing_ something, but he's frozen. Just like Romeo is frozen.

"Man," Mercutio spits, voice breaking, "fuck you both," before his eyes roll back in his head.

Sounds grow distant. Romeo can faintly hear Benvolio calling for help, and running footsteps. Ahead of him, the wolf prowls, nursing the wound in its flank.

Werewolf bites are poison to faery blood.

The wound in Tybalt's side drips. Drips again.

This is school, you don't do bloodlust at school. You don't do bloodlust ever. You are not a monster. You can control yourself and you do not give in to bloodlust.

As he charges at Tybalt, fangs gleaming, Romeo really doesn't care.

* * *

"The rules," the headmaster, Mr Prince, says sternly, "are clear. One student is already in the hospital in a faery sleep which is the only thing keeping him from dying of poisoning via werewolf bite. If Tybalt Capulet weren't _also_ in the hospital receiving an urgent blood transfusion to keep him alive, I'd be saying this to him, too.

"We welcome the supernatural community to our school, on the condition that personal and political rivalries are left out of their time in education. We welcome vampires to our school on the condition that they are capable of controlling themselves.

"With the situation as it is, I have no choice but to expel Romeo Montague."

* * *

" _No!_ " Juliet shrieks, mascara running, face wet, voice hoarse and cracking, volume out of control. The picture of foolish teenage rebellion. To add insult to injury.

"Sweetie, your father is just trying to do what's best for you –" her mother pleads.

"Then he'd _listen_ to me!" She's practically howling now, unable to control herself. _Refusing_ to control herself. Enough people are already trying to control her. "My cousin is in the _hospital_ and you are _not_ sending me away to a _fucking boarding school!_ "

Her father looks as if he wants to slap her. It hurts. It hurts to know that this is what it comes down to, the minute she doesn't act like their demure Pack heiress. Juliet lets it hurt, lets it dig in, make her angry.

" _Language_ ," he growls. "Tybalt is in the hospital. I don't need to be worrying about your behaviour as well, young lady."

Unable to think for sheer rage, Juliet can't come up with anything contemptuous enough to say. She spits on the ground in front of him.

" _That is enough!_ " Her mother's hand is like a vice around her wrist, nails digging in like claws. "How _dare_ you!" Juliet tries to pull away and the grip gets tighter. She almost lets out a whimper of pain, but holds it in. Her eyes well with more tears. Damn her tear ducts. Damn her parents for thinking nothing she says holds any rational weight if she's crying when she says it.

"You should be grateful," her mother hisses, then makes, seemingly, a conscious effort to gentle her tone. "Juliet, we're being lenient. We're trying to meet you halfway. It wouldn't be total social isolation. You could still see Paris –"

She brings her foot down hard on her mother's and runs for her room, locking the door behind her. Under the bedclothes she huddles down in a foetal position, covers over her head, small and very lost. She's not old enough for this. She's not young enough for this. There is no right age for this.

Juliet shakes, wrapped in a duvet, ears covered against the banging on the door.

* * *

"Alright," the Friar says, looking mildly disturbed. No-one knows why he's called the Friar, he doesn't display any signs of religion and even if he did, 'Friar' is a bit of a weird nickname to have.

But everyone knows he's the person you go to for drugs. Even Juliet.

"Alright," he says again. "I can get you something that'll make you look ill. Ill enough that you can't travel. But I don't have it with me, you'll have to come back in a few days."

* * *

A few days later, Juliet comes into school to the news that the Friar has been arrested. "For _drug_ possession," the person she asks drawls, looking at her with thinly-veiled contempt, "what did you _think_ it was gonna be for?"

Juliet runs.

Can't think. Can't even concentrate, barely enough to breathe. Feet pounding the ground like they're on fire. Heart hammering against her ribs before she ever picks up speed. Panic, cold and awake in every cell, animal terror. She can almost feel prestigious, ivy-covered walls around her, can feel her mother's grip around her wrist like a vice. _Run run run run_. Can't stay still. Can't stay here.

Can't think. What's the point in thinking when her plan's gone, just like that. Shaking almost out of her skin, Juliet does what she's learned over the past few weeks: what she wants, and damn the consequences. Goes where she wants because _can't, can't, can't do this, I want to see him, I need to see him, I can't stay here_.

The Montague house is a way out of town. With some small distance between her and the school, Juliet shifts, lets wolf muscles do the work for her. Adrenaline and fear send her hurtling towards the Montagues' house, a creature of fur, teeth, and motion. There's no thrill in her body now, not the way there has been these past few weeks, no physical joy in strength and speed. No play. Just fear and need. Just her body functioning to its fullest capacity, working like fury, her fury.

She's still half wolf by the time she reaches the house, still shaking off fur and the hot thrumming movement of the wolf as she hits the wall and starts to climb. She knows which window is Romeo's. _Can't stay still, can't stop. Can't stop ever._

Except halfway up she hears a woman scream and realises his mother is in the kitchen and just saw her crawling up the house like goddamn Spiderman.

* * *

"For God's sake, see _reason_ –" His mother's voice is tired, but it still rings out from the kitchen all the way up to Romeo's room, where Juliet is snuggled down in his arms.

"I am! What I'm seeing is that I'm not risking everything we've _worked_ for in this town for our son's _high school love affair_ –"

"Oh, don't be so _patronising_. As if you weren't just the same." Her voice has a note of amusement in it now, which is promising: it means she knows she can win the argument.

Against him, Juliet puffs out a breath, blows a strand of hair out of her face. The gesture is devastating. Romeo is ecstatic.

"Love, do you _really_ want me to start telling the Capulets how to raise their daughter –"

She is so warm. Everything is so warm. Everything is warm now. Her face is pressed into the crook of his neck and Romeo has never in his life been happier, doesn't want to move ever again.

"Let me turn that around, do _you_ want the Capulets sending their daughter to boarding school because she had the audacity to date our son? Because she dared to have _excellent taste_? I don't know about you but I don't like _our son_ being treated like a dirty little secret –" That'll hit home, Romeo knows.

Juliet's eyes meet his, the light in them, the smile at the corners. He's humbled, breathless, home.

* * *

"Man," Mercutio says, when they show up to visit him in the hospital together, "fuck you both."

Romeo blanches.

"Too soon," Benvolio stage-whispers, and the ward fills with helpless, hysterical laughter.

* * *

AN: happy ending because I GODDAMN WELL SAY SO


End file.
